Lotus
by CeitEvans
Summary: A broken man seeks comfort. (M rating for caution. Not explicit. One shot.)


(A/N) This was a really random thought I had ages ago that I just had to write. I actually submitted it for my Advanced Higher English folio, with some changes obviously. The subject matter is a bit weird but I've always wondered how Remus dealt with all those years alone, not that I'm suggesting that he was one to regularily visit brothels haha. Anyway, I hope you enjoy.

_Lotus_

He watched. He watched _her_. She was dancing and she was singing and she was _intoxicating._ The music was slow, some kind of chinese ballad, he didn't understand the words. He didn't need to. All he could do was watch. Her hair was long, black, thick, it went to her hips and swung to the music – to her dancing. Her eyes were dark. Piercing. Her skin was pale, it contrasted with the red of her..._ensemble._ Her limbs – long but she was not tall. She moved with grace, hiding her face behind the fan before throwing it in the air and catching it. And still, she sang.

_Bei fang you jia ren_

_jue shi er du li_

_yi gu qing ren cheng_

_zai gu qing re guo_

_ning bu zhi_

_qing cheng yu quing guo_

_jia ren nan zai de_

He didn't know why he was here. He couldn't believe he had come. But he had heard of _her _and tonight, especially tonight, he could not help himself. He had never thought he was the kind of man who came to these places but, of late, he didn't really know what kind of man he was, if he was really a man at all. Looking at her, merely looking at her made it go away – at least for a moment. She looked at him, he swore she did. But in a second her eyes were gone, laying their gaze upon another. He swallowed - his throat suddenly dry. He didn't have a drink; he had spent the last of his money on the admission fee. He watched her and he_ yearned. _

_Bei fang you jia ren_

_jue shi er du li_

_yi gu qing ren cheng_

_zai gu qing re guo_

_ning bu zhi_

_qing cheng yu quing guo_

_jia ren nan zai de_

Suddenly the music stopped. The song had finished. Her audience cheered, drunken and lewd. He was excluded from them. They were of a different ilk than he. Or at least, he hoped they were. The way they looked at her was different. He felt reverence. They – lust. But, perhaps, it was hard to tell the difference in a place like this. The lines became blurred. What was wrong and what was right didn't really matter anymore. It was all about greed.

She smiled - a small smile, not reaching her eyes as she gazed at them from the stage. Shame filled him, if she were to look at him, what would make him different from the other men in this room? The ones he had felt such disgust for. The ones he knew she must too. He stared desperately at her, trying to connect their eyes, to prove to her that he was different; that he suffered too. It was futile, he knew. Her gaze, if it ever met his would never understand, he would never be able to communicate that which he so desperately desired. The story was too long, too complicated, too hopeless, to ever tell in one glance. But still, he tried.

The woman who owned the house, who owned _her_, stepped onto the stage and laughed daintily – pleased. She took her hand in her own, clinging to the namesake who kept her business going. She laughed again, smiling affectionately, falsely, "Oh Fu, how I delight in you. As I'm sure you all do too." She addressed the men, who cheered. She, _Fu,_ smiled again. "And I'm sure you all know -as you must have read the posters – that today is Fu's birthday!" She clapped, the men cheered, Fu smiled. "And that means, that Fu gets to _choose_ which one of you lucky men get to take her to bed tonight! And all free of charge!" She beamed, as if she couldn't quite believe her own genius.

A sharp intake of breath – his own. Would she choose him? He knew she would not. He was hidden in the shadows. He almost didn't want her to choose him. He didn't want her to look at him and think that all he wanted was a body to sate his lust. He didn't want her disgust. He couldn't bear to look at her any more but he couldn't draw his eyes away from her. She looked around at them. He wondered what she must think? How she could choose? Did she enjoy this life of hers? She could not. No, there was a softness to her which forbade such thoughts.

It occurred to him that this gift of hers was as disgusting as the men in this room, including himself. This was her birthday gift – the chance to choose her own partner tonight. Was it a blessing? By making that choice was she saving herself from something worse? Or was it an evil to her, having to decide on that which she must loath? He felt the hatred grow in him – the familiar old feeling. All the passion of his youth, the rage that consummed him, aimed at the injustice of the world. He had given up on that long ago; too old and too weary to care for the cards life had dealt him. And, oh, how unjust that dealing had been.

Her eyes focused on his for the briefest second. He convinced myself it had been a passing glance, that she hadn't really seen him. But it was enough time to let him see her. Her eyes betrayed an innocence that she had been trying to cover up. He found himself entranced by it.

She turned to the Mistress of the Lotus House and whispered something in her ear. The Mistress turned to them again.

"The scarred man in the brown robes."

His breath stopped. It couldn't be. He didn't want it to be. And yet, he did. There were other men in brown robes here – dozens of them. He was sure at least one of them had a scar. But then, not many people had scars like his. Her eyes were on his. The Mistress' too.

"Yes, you, there in the back. Stand up, my dear sir. Take your prize."

He stood up slowly, hoping there had been a mistake, praying there had not; scared of what it might mean if this was real. He could feel the men in the room watching him. He could imagine their thoughts. _Why him? _He couldn't answer them, he didn't know. He wasn't even sure he believed it. Was this some cruel reality he had dreamt up in a fit of self pity? Yet, it felt real. Everything was tangible. And she, well, not even in his lowest of times could he have created her.

She began to decend from the stage, moving towards him, slowly, gracefully. Her hips swaying as she crossed the floor. She was sensuality itself. And then, she was in front of him, her hand outstretched; asking for his own. He tried to speak but no words came out. She smiled, as if she understood, as if she knew him, as if she were saying _I know, you are not like them. _He slid his hand into hers. And she looked at him. And she seemed like she cared.

"I will look after you tonight." Her voice was quiet, like a whisper, and soft and comforting and _warm. _

And he was lost.

(A/N) reviews would be lovely!


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